Gravity and Consciousness

Gravity and Consciousness

It is tempting to see an analogy between the mystery of consciousness and the mystery of gravity. Both arose at around the same time (with Descartes and Newton) as the Scientific Revolution was getting underway. Gravity and consciousness seem “occult” to a mechanistic worldview: the brain and the earth are extended objects with mass, while consciousness and gravity are ethereal, invisible, and impalpable. It is natural to imagine them as surrounding these extended objects, like a ghostly penumbra (both are “ghosts in the machine”). Hence a kind of dualism suggests itself: in Cartesian style, we could say that the essence of physical objects is extension and the essence of gravity is attraction, as the essence of the body is extension and the essence of mind is thought. Mimicking Newton, we could assert that consciousness is proportional to the brain’s mass (quantity of neurons) and its amount of electrical activity. There is a mathematical relationship between mind and brain, as there is between the mass of objects and their gravitational force. In both cases this coexists with deep mystery about the nature of the ghostly things in question, and about their manner of dependence (What has mass got to do with attraction? What have neurons got to do with thought?). So, it might be thought that we have the same kind of mystery at work here: it is as if gravity is the earth’s mind and consciousness is the brain’s gravity. Not literally, to be sure, but metaphorically; the two mysteries have the same general structure. They are analogous. We might even liken the way bodies reach out to other bodies and affect their motion by means of gravity to the way that the mind reaches out to distant objects to make them objects of thought. Both involve a kind of targeting or directedness. And isn’t the concept of attraction derived initially from a psychological phenomenon (like the concept of repulsion)?

            These points may be granted, but on deeper inspection they emerge as comparatively superficial. Let’s turn to We Have No Idea, particularly chapter 6 (“Why Is Gravity So Different from the Other Forces”). Here Cham and Whiteson explore the mysteries of gravity, asking “Do you really understand gravity?”. They reply as follows: “You see it [gravity] working around you, but when we compare the way it works to the patterns set by the other basic forces, we notice immediately that it doesn’t quite fit. It is weirdly weak, it nearly always attracts rather than repels, and it doesn’t play nice with a quantum view of the world.” (77) As they point out, gravity is extraordinarily weak compared to magnetism (as well as the strong and weak forces): just compare the force exerted by a kitchen magnet to that exerted by the earth—the magnet exerts a stronger force than the earth despite its comparatively tiny mass. Gravity is also peculiar in having only an attractive direction; there is no counterpart to positive and negative charge with attraction and repulsion. Thus, there is no cancelling out of gravitational forces analogous to that which obtains in the case of electromagnetism. Third, the physics of gravity (notably Einstein’s GTR) cannot be unified with quantum theory: there are no “gravitons” playing the role of photons in the physics of electromagnetism. Hence the difficulty of producing a Unified Theory in physics. But none of this applies to the case of consciousness: here we find no parallels to these points about gravity. Nor, I might add, do we find any analogue of the idea that gravity is really the bending of space by massive objects. In fact, consciousness is not a force at all—it is a process or attribute. Consciousness is not a member of a family of other forces like gravity. This is why I say that the analogy is superficial (though not without interest as far as it goes). The mystery of gravity consists in different kinds of considerations from the mystery of consciousness. Gravity is an anomalous force, but consciousness isn’t a force at all and isn’t therefore an anomalous force. The key similarity is that just as Newton couldn’t find the cause of gravitational attraction in matter, so we can’t find the cause of consciousness in the brain (the explanatory cause). There is a gap in our understanding of nature in both cases. But even if there is no deep analogy here, it is still instructive to explore the similarities and dissimilarities between the two cases. It is good to keep a catalogue of the mysteries of nature (to use Hume’s phrase). As Cham and Whiteson observe, “We always need to keep in the back of our minds the larger perspective that we are still in the dark about most of the basic truths about the universe”. (91)

Colin McGinn

Share

Readership

I’m curious about the demographics of my readership. I have the impression that no one from a North American philosophy department ever comments on this blog. I wonder whether readers would care to tell me whether I am wrong about this. Perhaps readers would like to share their affiliation.

Share

Wimbledon and Me

Wimbledon and Me

I had always been a one-handed player, forehand and backhand. Occasionally I would try a two-handed backhand and find it awkward and unnatural. But my neck operation in March changed all of this: it left my right arm impaired, causing me to lose power, mobility, and control. I was assured it would get better, but nobody ever claimed it would go back to normal, and I don’t think it will. I decided to try to play two-handed, mainly hitting against the wall at the Biltmore tennis center. I’m not going to say it was easy but it didn’t prove as impossible as I feared. The forehand was the easiest because it doesn’t differ much from a one-handed forehand; you just add your left hand to your right on the handle. With a good amount of practice, I started to get it. The backhand was harder because you have to use your non-dominant hand as the main source of power and control. It’s true that I use my left hand a good deal for drums and guitar, but tennis is different. However, after a couple of months of almost daily practice it started to feel natural. I have got to the point that when I hold the racket in one hand to hit, I want to add my left hand to the action—it feels strange to use just one hand. Theoretically, this makes sense: no baseball player or cricketer would choose to use one hand, and obviously two hands are better than one for power and control. That’s why tennis players switched from one hand to two for the backhand (with some notable exceptions). But if that is true for the backhand, doesn’t it carry over to the forehand? Why don’t more players use a two-handed forehand (like Monica Seles)? I don’t know.

         So when I watch Wimbledon it now seems odd to me to see players using two hands for the backhand and then reverting to one hand for the forehand. This is especially true for recreational players who don’t have the speed and strength to hit well with one hand (kids, oldsters, the impaired). I even think I might improve my game by going two-handed! It is certainly an interesting way to play, if not one I would have welcomed.

Share

Mass and Consciousness

Mass and Consciousness

In “The Mysteries of Mass” Jorge Cham and Daniel Whitestone write as follows: “We have many descriptions of mass but very little understanding of what it is and why we have it. We all feel mass. As a baby, you develop that sense that some things are harder to push around than others. But as familiar as that feeling is, most physicists would struggle to explain the underlying technical details. As you’ll see in this chapter, most of your mass is not made out of the masses of all the particles inside of you. We don’t know even know why some things have mass and some don’t, or why inertia perfectly balances out the force of gravity. Mass is mysterious, and you can’t it all on that dessert you had last night.” (58-60)[1] Here we can substitute “consciousness” for “mass” in certain places and get something both sensible and true. In particular, consciousness is a mystery, and despite the fact that we all feel it we don’t know why some things have it and some don’t. The authors go on to observe that inertia is a mystery and that we don’t understand why some things have it and some don’t (64, 68). They also note that particles have very different masses for which we have no explanation: it seems arbitrary what mass a particular type of particle has. Particle mass is not predictable from such properties as charge or spin; it seems like a brute fact of nature. The authors sum up: “It’s amazing to think that something so fundamental to our existence [mass] can still be a mystery” (74)

       The analogies to consciousness are staring us in the face, though our authors make no allusion to them. Specifically: (a) we don’t know why some things are conscious and some are not, and (b) the reason why some neurons are associated with consciousness and some are not is opaque to us (not predictable from their physical-chemical properties). The mysteries thus take an analogous form in both cases. Our familiarity with both things may blind us to their mysteries, but a little probing reveals a deep lack of comprehension. I would put the point this way: some things have mass/inertia and some don’t (space, time, neutrinos, numbers, maybe thoughts), just as some things are conscious and some are not (particles, rocks, numbers, space and time). We don’t understand why this is—we just know that it is. Nor do we know why these things are mysterious (the mystery is a mystery). Nor do we see any method by which we could resolve the mystery. The mysteries are deep, intractable. Did mass evolve from an earlier massless state of the universe? If so, evolved from what and by what mechanism or process? Did consciousness evolve from an earlier non-conscious state of the universe? If so, evolved from what and by what mechanism or process? We might compare the massless neutrino with the insentient zombie: both behave like objects with mass/consciousness, yet these attributes are lacking. In short, the parallels are remarkable and instructive.

       Here are two further points of analogy, both quite speculative. First, mass is defined in terms of inertia, i.e., resistance to change of motion in response to force applied; while consciousness is often defined in terms of what might be called epistemic resistance, i.e., ease of knowledge by an outside party (the other minds problem in its various forms). Mass is defined by how easy it is to move the object; mind is defined by how easy it is to know the object (subject). Some objects are harder to move than others, and some minds are harder to know than others (by other minds). Second, there are two concepts of mass in physics, inertial mass and gravitational mass, which though distinct are closely related. Similarly, in psychology there are two types of consciousness, non-conceptual consciousness and conceptual consciousness. Though distinct, these are closely related. Perceptual consciousness is inherently non-conceptual; cognitive consciousness is essentially conceptual or propositional. Sensation and thought are two types of consciousness, as inertial mass and gravitational mass are two types of mass. So, there is a similar abstract structure here. Of course, none of these analogies and mysteries provide reasons to jettison mass or consciousness from our conceptual scheme; but they do encourage tolerance of the mysteries attending consciousness. Even so basic a scientific concept as mass has its mysterious side.[2]

[1] We Have No Idea (2017), chapter 5.

[2] Of course, consciousness isn’t identical to mass!

Share

Cancer and Cancelation

I doubt that it will be necessary to cancel me for much longer, which will be a relief to my cancelers. Cancer will step in to help them out.

Share

Radiation

I have just finished six weeks of radiation treatment, five days a week. Among other things it damaged (temporarily) my sense of taste, making it difficult to eat; I now weigh 128 pounds. Compensation: it is now much easier to do my horizontal balance and I can do more pushups.

Share

Tranquility Ethics

Tranquility Ethics

What constitutes the good life? According to ethical hedonism, the good life is the life of pleasure. But what is it about pleasure that makes it conducive to the good life? Is it pleasure’s inherent phenomenology or is it something to which pleasure gives rise? Is it the way pleasure feels or is it the kind of effect that pleasure produces? What might that effect be? Consider the following case: you are setting out to write something important to you so that you require undisturbed time alone; however, a good friend of yours of hedonistic persuasion decides to give you a lot of pleasure by arranging all manner of delightful diversions. You do not welcome these intrusions despite their undeniable pleasurableness. Or consider the pleasure machine that ensures non-stop enjoyment but gives you no time to do anything else: again, this will detract from other values you hold dear. Too much pleasure seems to upset the balance. Nevertheless, pleasure does achieve one kind of outcome for which you have reason to be grateful: it spares you the discontent that comes from having unsatisfied desires. You don’t have to worry about desires you can’t satisfy, needs that go unmet. So you want the amount of pleasure that accompanies satisfaction, contentment, but you don’t want so much pleasure that you feel deluged with the stuff. The good life, then, is not so much the maximum amount of pleasure as the right amount of pleasure. But what is the right amount?

            I suggest it is the amount that ensures tranquility.[1] The qualitative feel of pleasure may be part of what gives it value, but that is not the whole story—there is also its connection with what might be called peace of mind. For example, the pleasure of eating is associated with the knowledge that one is not going to go hungry in the near future, and it is incompatible with hunger pangs felt in the moment. Present and future hunger pangs are not consistent with a tranquil, contented, peaceful state of mind. If (per impossibile) pleasure invariably led to a troubled and distracted state of mind, then it would not have the value it now has; indeed, one might wonder if it has any value. So some of the value of pleasure derives from its instrumental value as a way of achieving tranquility—though it can lead to the opposite of tranquility in certain (unusual) circumstances. Perhaps this link to tranquility explains at least part of the attraction of ethical (and prudential) hedonism. The pleasurable life is the tranquil life—calm, peaceful, composed, restful, and agreeable. It is the opposite of chaotic, anxious, vexatious, and annoying. And tranquility is a value to which we can readily assent: we all want to live a tranquil life; we all subscribe to what might be called “tranquility ethics”. One of the things we ought to do (morally and prudentially) is bring about a state of tranquility. Tranquility is a good thing.

            Now consider virtue ethics: the good life is the virtuous life. This looks like a very different conception of the good life from that of the hedonist: instead of pursuing pleasure we should act as we morally ought to act. Then and only then will we be living a good life. Obedience to God is one version of this general position. A reason often given for following this precept is that we will not have to suffer the pangs of conscience: we will be contented with ourselves and not tormented by perception of our moral failures (and prudential blindness). The virtuous life is a life untroubled by a guilty conscience. But notice the affinity between this rationale and that presented by the reflective hedonist: the virtuous life is similarly the tranquil life. We will not be distracted by the pricks of conscience; we will be free to pursue whatever occupations appeal to us. We will not lie awake at night berating ourselves for our bad deeds—as the hungry person lies awake wondering where his next meal is coming from. So tranquility is part of the appeal of virtue ethics too. It turns out, then, that hedonism and moralism (as we might call it) share a common feature, namely that both rest upon an underlying commitment to the value of tranquility. We can imagine a moral theorist beginning with tranquility and moving on from there to advocate (limited) hedonism and (moderate) moralism. Thus: tranquility is clearly central to the good life (morally and prudentially); hedonism and moralism serve the cause of tranquility; therefore we should adopt hedonism and moralism. But we only accept them in a form that respects tranquility: not excessive injunctions to maximize pleasure, and not extreme forms of moral self-abnegation, but sensible precepts that don’t upset the delicate balance that ensures peace of mind. Then we will be living the best possible life for a human being. Given the nature of human existence, we know that tranquility is difficult to achieve, but it should be our focus, our ideal; it should form the core of the good life.[2] A life with much pleasure in it will be a tranquil life (as long as the pleasure is not too distracting), and a life of virtue will also be a tranquil life (if not pushed to absurd extremes): so we should find room for both things. Thus tranquility ethics unites hedonistic ethics and virtue ethics, as well as highlighting a central value often neglected. The happy person is seen not as someone overflowing with pleasure, or as sternly following the moral law, but as someone internally at peace, untroubled, cool, calm and collected.

No doubt many characters from literature could be cited as fitting this description, but James Bond provides a simple and familiar example of the type (if somewhat cartoonish): always in pursuit of pleasure but heedful of the demands of duty, never flustered, inwardly calm (even when delivering necessary violence), utterly imperturbable. He faces situations of utmost stress but he never loses his quietness of mind, his composure, his sangfroid. Even his name suggests firmness of purpose, an internal unity. No wonder people envy James Bond his life-style, his easy way with the world. Despite his superficial difference from another famous spy, George Smiley, both men have a kind of inner constancy, a preternatural calmness under pressure. You feel they would remain tranquil in the most perilous of situations (likewise Mr. Spock for different reasons). By contrast, Shakespeare’s characters (Hamlet, Othello, Lear, Macbeth) are hardly ever tranquil, always worked up about something. As to ordinary humans, their life is full of anxiety, disquiet, inner conflict, turmoil, uncertainty, fear, and want—the very opposite of tranquility. This is why it makes sense to urge its importance, and its difficulty. This is also why we envy trees their tranquil lives. It is strange that the Western tradition in philosophy places so little weight on tranquility.

Colin McGinn

[1] Eastern traditions emphasize tranquility as essential to the good life, but I won’t talk about this here except to say that detachment from emotions and from other people does not seem to me a good way to achieve the right kind of tranquility. Tranquility comes in degrees, and perfect tranquility strikes me as unachievable given human nature.

[2] The concept of tranquility is not the same as the Aristotelian concept of flourishing: the latter concept connotes realizing one’s potential in forms of excellence, while the former concept is more negative in that it suggests an absenceof turmoil as part of the good life. Tranquility is not feeling certain things like anxiety or self-hatred or anger. Rocks are tranquil.

Share

Perceiving

Perceiving

Two positions have dominated the philosophy of perception: naïve realism and the sense-datum theory. Either we see material objects “directly” or we see only sense-data. I will describe a hybrid theory according to which the objects of perception are indeed material particulars located at some distance away in space but the properties we see these objects as having are not the objective physical properties actually possessed by such particulars. Instead the properties in question are projected by the mind and have no objective counterparts in the physical world. Thus we should be, to use the standard terminology, naïve realists about the objects perceived but sense-datum theorists about the properties these objects are perceived as possessing. We see physical particulars existing in the distal environment, but the attributes we see them as possessing are not their actual physical attributes; they are (in one sense) mental attributes (or possibly topic-neutral attributes). We see objective particulars, but we don’t see them as having attributes objectively possessed (i.e. the attributes they actually objectively exemplify).[1] Perception is both objective and subjective, depending on which facet of it we are discussing. In the matter of perceptual reference to specific objects the senses are objective, but in the matter of perceptual description (general attributes ascribed) the senses are not objective. In yet other terms, perception is exogenous and endogenous, distal and proximate, “external” and “internal”. Thus naïve realism about the objects of perception doesn’t entail naïve realism about how these objects are perceived, and subjectivism about how objects are perceived doesn’t entail subjectivism about the objects perceived. In fact it turns out that this combination of objectivity and subjectivity is precisely what we should expect of perception, given its function and limitations.

            I won’t spend much time defending the first part of the hybrid theory—the identification of perceptual objects with objective physical particulars. When an ordinary object is before me in my visual field and acts on my senses in the normal way, we can say truly that it is the object I am seeing. It is the very object that I can also sense in other ways—by touch, taste, etc.—and it is the same object that is described by physics and chemistry, biology and geography. It is a three-dimensional solid object located in physical space consisting of atoms and subject to gravity and other forces; it might have been there long before perceiving organisms ever evolved and it will survive their extinction. Its properties are precisely those ascribed to it in objective physical science, whatever those may be. It is completely mind-independent. Yet it is the (direct!) object of perceptual reference—what the perceptual system singles out as a subject of predication (attribution, characterization). It is what is seen: not some intermediary will-o’-the-wisp entity but a real concrete inhabitant of objectivity reality. Nor is there any other object that is simultaneously seen along with this concrete object; it is the only object referred to by the perceptual system. So yes, we see bunches of atoms, assemblages of electrons, protons, and neutrons, collocations of strings or quarks—things that have nothing of the mind built into them. The objects of perception are just the ordinary physical particulars of the natural world, neither more nor less; and nothing else!

            This much will be assented to by most theorists of perception today (not so in the heyday of sense-datum theory); far more controversial is the second part of the theory. It will be supposed that the properties attributed by vision (say) are precisely those objectively possessed by the distal particulars that constitute the objects of sight. For example, I may see an object as round and being round is exactly what that object is—objectively, in reality, as things mind-independently stand. I see the physical particular itself and my eyes ascribe to it the very properties it really has. Maybe I also see it as frightening or delicious-looking, which are mind-involving, but the core of my perceptual representation consists of attributions of objectively instantiated properties—shape, distance, relative position, texture, and so on. I see an object as having edges and by God it has edges! But are things really that simple? Do we see things exactly as they objectively are? Let’s start with color and other secondary qualities: don’t these really have their origin in the mind? Certainly there is a long tradition that supposes so. Again, I won’t go into this question in detail, but it surely is possible that color in objects consists of a disposition to give rise to sensory experiences of a certain sort.  And isn’t the way an organism sees color a result of its specific sensory make-up? The same color might elicit fear in one animal but joy in another, depending on what the object means to the animal (is it predator or prey?). Couldn’t there be creatures that by stipulation project colors onto objects with no detriment to the claim that they nevertheless perceive objective physical particulars? This may be admitted but denied that primary qualities are mentally projected: things surely have shape independently of whether they are perceived to have shape! That may well be so, but is it the same shape? We are familiar with the idea that visual geometry is Euclidian while physical geometry is not, so that how we perceive figure differs from how figure objectively is. Also, there is that old point of Plato’s, namely that nothing in nature is ever perfectly circular or rectangular or straight. These are ideals dealt with in pure geometry, but they don’t apply to the empirical world. But don’t we see things in accordance with this natural geometry? The discus looks round, the picture frame rectangular, etc. We see and feel edges as smooth and continuous while in (microscopic) reality they are bumpy and discontinuous. We see things as solid when they are not, being mainly empty space; or empty when they have tiny particles in them, like air. We perceive spatial relations egocentrically, which they are not intrinsically. Then we have that old chestnut: the circular coin that looks elliptical from an angle. An elliptical representation surely enters into such a perception (no matter what we think), but the coin itself lacks this property. All perceptions come with a mode of presentation (visual constancies provide a good example), but modes of presentation are not part of the reality that we perceive—they are not objective features of the physical world. It is hard to think of any perceptual encounter that is free of subjective elements, i.e. mental representations that incorporate the perspective of the subject. We don’t perceive the world sub specie aeternitatus. We never perceive the world just as it objectively is sans any subjective intrusion; no organism does. We always bring a point of view (the Lebenswelt).

            This is not remotely surprising given how perceptual systems evolved. Perception evolved in conjunction with (inseparably from) the organism’s motor system, and the motor system is a practical capacity. Like all biological systems the sensorimotor system obeys principles of economy and has inherent limitations; it doesn’t build in more than is necessary to achieve its biological purpose (survival, reproduction). Perceptual representational primitives are geared to practical ends not to ideal science, so they suffice to carry out their function if they approximate to objective reality; complete veridicality is not in their job description. Getting the exact geometry of the physical world right is not their aim, so long as there is an adequate correlation between how they represent things and how things objectively are. We don’t find systematic radical discrepancies between perceptual content and objective reality, because that would thwart the purposes of the sensorimotor system; but it can tolerate small degrees of inaccuracy or coarseness or opacity. Animals don’t need “microspical eyes” (to use Locke’s phrase). As long as the perceived external object is represented in practically useful ways, the sensorimotor system is doing its job; it can get by with non-veridical representations as long as they make no difference to practical outcomes. Indeed too much accuracy and precision might interfere with the smooth functioning of the organism (compare vagueness). Of course the human visual system evolved from much simpler visual systems and inherits many of their design features, so we should expect it to have the pragmatic character of earlier systems. Thus some degree of objectivity is desirable, but not complete veridicality, absolute precision. The mind generates perceptual primitives that suit its biological purposes, and these map onto objective reality without necessarily coinciding with it. Thus the properties attributed to external objects by the sensorimotor system are not possessed by those objects as they are independently. Those smooth surfaces that we see and touch are not possessed by physical objects as such; their surfaces are granular and discontinuous—so they are not parts of physical objects objectively considered. The data of sense consist of attributes cobbled together by the mind (ultimately the genes) over the long course of evolution, so sense-datum theory is not wrong on this score (however mangled its expression tended to be).[2] We perceive objects as we represent them for our specific purposes not as they independently are (precisely, objectively, absolutely). Of course objects are disposed to cause in us perceptions that only approximate to their intrinsic objective properties, so they have these dispositional properties; but the properties we attribute are not identical with any properties of the object in itself. Yet we are seeing that object: it is the particular that our perception singles out for comment (so to speak). So our perceptual states have two sides: the objective physical particular that is singled out and the mind-contributed property that is attributed to that particular. We are both locked in our head (as in the traditional sense-datum theory) and oriented to outer reality (as naïve realism supposes). But we are not completely locked in our head, because of the correlations and approximations I have mentioned. We are not a mirror but we are not a black box either.

            There is a question about how mental the perceptual attributes are, and hence how subjective perception is. Earlier sense-datum theorists tended to take sense-data as completely mental—assuming that perceived shape and color were themselves mental phenomena (though not all did this: some took them to be neutral between mental and physical). I would say they are not mental at all, not strictly speaking anyway. I don’t think color properties are really mental properties, despite being projected by the mind. I also believe that geometrical attributes are not themselves mental: being circular, say, is not a property of the mind. They are “abstract” for want of a better word. My point has just been that the attributes ascribed by the perceptual system to physical particulars are not in general identical to attributes objectively possessed by those particulars, so how we see things is not (precisely) how they are objectively. I don’t say that these attributes are mental or subjective, though it is true that they are projected by the mind (they are probably lurking somewhere in the genes). Certainly they are not derived from external objects in the manner of classical empiricism. They are “subjective” only in the sense that they have their origin in the mind not in the sense that they are attributes of the mind (like pain or belief). What I have chiefly wanted to urge is that it is perfectly consistent to maintain a hybrid view of perception, and that both sides of this composite picture are plausible. Perception is of (de re) physical particulars outside the perceiving subject and yet it is as of (de dicto) properties that fail to coincide with the properties objectively possessed by such particulars. Perceptual reference is to physical particulars, but perceptual predication is not of physical properties (i.e. those objectively possessed by physical particulars). So both naïve realism and the sense-datum theory are partly wrong and partly not wrong.[3]

Colin McGinn     

[1] I am adopting some of the terminology developed by Tyler Burge in his Perception: First Form of Mind (2022).

[2] See J.L. Austin’s Sense and Sensibilia (1962) on the mangling.

[3] Burge doesn’t discuss the hybrid theory, though it seems to me consistent with his overall position (except that he tends towards attribute veridicality). I should note that a projective view of perceptual properties is consistent with the existence of perceptual constancies with respect to such properties.

Share